Three Tarisian Ales
by Wraithfighter
Summary: One for the Admiral, one for the Jedi, and one for the friend who had never arrived.Sequel to the similarly titled Two Tarisian Ales. LSF Revan, LSM Exile, Angsty as hell Carth


Back to writing KOTOR stories after, oh, a year long hiatus, this is a sequel to my second story, "Two Tarisian Ales". Please read it first, this will make so much more sense if you do...

(insert blatant, pathetic plea for reviews here)

Oh, yes, and LucasArts owns the characters, excluding the precise nature of Revan and the Exile. Not that I really care, Fair Use protecting this and all, but it's still a good thing to point out.

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"A Tarisian Ale, please."

The barkeep, with a sly grin, pulls out a pre-poured glass and sets it down next to two others, one clearly untouched and another clearly not, held in the hand of a determined and very experienced drinker. He had long become used to this pattern; the two, with only the occasional interruption, had frequented his bar every week for the last few years.

Of course, she tipped very well, and that sped up his memory quite a bit.

One for the Admiral, one for the Jedi, and one for the friend who had never arrived.

"Oh, how I tire of being a regular," she says, with only a slight hint of melodrama. She sits down at her seat, the same seat the Jedi sits in nearly every week, next to the same Republic Admiral who sits in his seat, the same seat he sits in nearly every week. "Hello Carth."

"Evening, Princess," he says, words slurred, speech sullen, the former pilot looking to be a few drinks into his routine.

"Must you keep calling me that?"

He drinks. "How much is that bounty worth again?"

"Hardly an issue anymore."

"Tell Mr. Five-o-Clock that."

She glances over her shoulder, spying the Rodian, who seems to be taking a very close interest in her. "There are other reasons for a drunk to stare at a woman in a bar."

He drinks. "Yeah, the blaster in his pocket says that." She rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her own ale. "But I was talking about the Hold-out in his jacket and the dagger in his boot. I don't see many of those in here."

"Thank you for the warning. He may live through our encounter. Now, about the drinking..."

He drinks. "You know how it'll end, don't bother, just leave me alone."

"Just one question this time. What if she walks in one of these days and sees you like this?"

"Knowing her? She'll probably think it's cute."

She drinks. "I strongly doubt it."

He drinks, she drinks, and they wait, waiting for the other to start talking again.

He takes another drink, then asks "So, how's the Sith Training Camp going?"

"I wish you wouldn't call it that. There are only four of us 'former Sith'."

He drinks. "Aren't there only ten of you?"

"Well, yes."

"And of the others, one's a former Bounty Hunter-"

"Former, who didn't kill when she was."

"A handmaiden of the Jedi Master who turned out to be a Sith."

"Also former, and she didn't know it."

He drinks. "Oh, and an engineer who created a weapon that destroyed an entire planet. And they're being taught by you, a Cathar with an anger problem, and," he shudders, "Jolee Bindo."

"And?"

He drinks, and with a wry grin says, "We're all doomed."

She drinks, and pauses, thinking over her words. "Your son is doing quite well."

"Good. Knew he would."

He sits and drinks, saying nothing, until the glass is empty and he motions for more.

She sits and drinks, saying nothing, until the glass is empty and she motions for no more.

"As lovely as your company is on these days, I must be going." She stands and drops a number of credits on the counter, far, far more than the price of one ale, making one observer very happy.

He drinks. "You know, you don't have to do this."

As she turns to leave, a smirk flashes on her face, and she says, "Yes, I do. I made a promise to a friend, Carth. Do take it easy, please."

She moves, with a quiet grace, towards the door, and the Rodian gets up, drops a payment of his own, and follows her out.

He drinks, and a few moments later the peace is broken by four high pitched wails outside the bar: The first three coming from a small blaster pistol, the last from the mouth of a Rodian, who had just been, quite literally, disarmed.

He grins and drinks, and the bar eventually returns to normal, outside of his view.

He begins to drink slower now, the desired heavy buzz finally reached, and his mind wanders to happier times:

Seeing a new recruit, running for the final escape pod, running over the charred remains of a Sith soldier.

Watching her as she slept on Taris.

Her smile, her taunts when they played, and she won, Pazaak.

Her face, happy and proud, whenever she looked at him.

Her bare back, that one time when he walked in on her changing.

Her face as she treated the wound from the subsequently force-flung steel box, a mixture of humor and regret. _"That my aim wasn't better,"_ she had said when he had asked about the latter.

And, finally, their first kiss, moments later, full of passion and love and life, the single moment when their lips met for the first time, spinning about in his mind. There were no complications, no anger, no hidden secrets, just warm joy, cruising about in their very own ship, not a care in the 'verse.

Savoring the memories, he drinks.

And she drinks.

"Blaugh! Who drinks lukewarm ale? Barkeep, little ice?" the raven-haired woman said, appearing on the stool beside him, the same figure in his mind.

"Hey Revan." He drinks.

She drinks after getting a fresh glass, and glances at the Admiral, a little stunned and nearly sad. "I was expecting, you know, some kind of reaction. A little shout, surprise, maybe a spit take?"

"Yeah, well, you're not really here. You're past the outer rim, remember? Fighting a fight that I can't help with." He drinks, the bitter ale washing down the bitter words.

"Ah, right, the letter." She drinks, worry and fear spreading across her face. "I... I just couldn't tell you in person. I wanted to, really, but any time I tried... the... the words just wouldn't come out."

"I know, it's okay, I doubt I would be able to either." He drinks, a lone tear dropping in his ale at the bitter memory.

She drinks, and notices his speech finally. "Wow, you're really out of it, aren't you?"

He drinks, a small grin escaping. "I've had a few too many."

"A few? More like a dozen."

"To be honest? I lost count."

She drinks and smirks. "Right, like you'd ever forget. You count your shots on your blaster pistol, and it takes a few hundred to drain a pack."

He gives a drunken equivalent of a chuckle, but says nothing, and drinks.

She drinks, her expression down. "So, this is how you pine for me? Getting wasted on ale, drinking the night and the sorrow away?"

He drinks. "Just a day a week, Beautiful."

She smirks at the name, but frowns again. "I don't think it's adorable."

"I know."

"But..."

He drinks. "It's... it's something I need to do."

"No, Flyboy. No, it's not," she says, concern in her eyes.

He drinks, and his face and voice turn angry. "Just leave me alone! I don't need to be lectured by a figment of my imagination."

"Seems like you do," she whispers, a tear of her own falling into her drink.

He stops, the glass halfway to his mouth. "I... I didn't mean to..."

"Relax, Flyboy, it's okay," she says, a sad grin on her face. "How about a story?"

He drinks. "Go wild, Gorgeous," he says, a bit of good humor returning to his voice.

She drinks. "I intend to. And didn't I tell you to pick one nickname?" She smiles her smile, and his heart warms at the sight of it.

"Right, sorry, Beautiful."

"That's better." She drinks, and clears her throat. "A while ago, a soldier was fighting long away from her love. She had fought for years, fighting an enemy practically made of shadows and darkness, a war whose end was long, long away. As time wore on, she grew slower, her strikes were weaker, for she was lonely."

"Lonely?"

She sighs. "Yes, lonely. You find a better word!"

He drinks. "How about 'lonesome'?" He grins, enjoying the teasing.

"Fine, lonesome! Can I continue now?" she says, flashing her smile.

"Yes ma'am," he says, his smile matching hers.

"Good. Some people I tell ya... Point is, she missed her love. And then an old friend of hers, a soldier much like herself, came to help, to fight the good fight.

She drinks and then she continues. "He told her that her love was still waiting for her, back home. Her heart grew at the news and her power returned, for a time. But, her thoughts would return to her love, even in the midst of battle, and her power would again wane. Her new ally saw this, and he grew concerned."

He drinks. "You're so eloquent, and you can't do better than 'lonely'?"

"Oh, pay attention! He told her about how his own love was destined to fail, as foretold by a person both soldiers respected. He said that while his might, but he would not let another's die so easily. So he sent the first warrior back home, back to her love, saying that he'll fight in her stead for now, that she should find out again why she's fighting. And what could she say but yes?

"So, Carth, how do you feel now?" she says, putting her hand on his shoulder.

He blinked, and in a moment the consequences of three hours of drinking vanished, and, finally, far to late for either of their tastes, realization struck.

He turns to the woman sitting next to him, now clearly not a hallucination.

Hallucinations can't use the Force. "Sarah...?"

"So, how are things?" she says, a triumphant, somewhat quivering smile on her lips.

He stares at her, in total disbelief, for a moment, than two, then all the sudden she's in his arms and he's in hers, both holding onto each other with all their might, breaking away only to kiss. And aside from a few sarcastic cheers and a muffled "Get a room!", the rest of the bar is silent.

"When?" he asks, squeezing her as tight as he can.

"Few hours ago. Bast told me you'd be here."

"How long?"

"Few weeks. Tinar told me to take my time."

"I swear, I could kiss that Exile..."

"Save it for me, okay?"

"I'm so sorry for what I said."

"It's okay. I had it coming for the note thing."

He chuckles, but sadly. "Why did you come here?"

"Bast wanted me to see you like this. Carth..."

"Later, Beautiful, I promise. My place?"

She smiles weakly. "Yes please."

They rush off, out the door, arm in arm, leaving behind two half-emptied glasses of ale, an empty glass, and all their cares in the 'verse.

Except one.

For she fears but one thing now, that he'll keep going to that same bar, keep drinking himself under, keep hurting himself because she's so far away.

And then he pulls a small, velvet box from his breast pocket, and nothing but joy remains.


End file.
